Another Woman's Daughter

by Fiona Sussman

  The Master started playing records again, and his white man’s music would travel out of the wide-open windows on an evening breeze to slip under my door and fill my room with gentle sound.

  In the midst of everything, in the center of this new lightness, was my Miriam—her little brown body running, her infectious laughter ringing, and her wonderment spilling over into the airy, high-ceilinged rooms.

  Then things started to really change.

  Master Michael began coming home from work early to take Miriam fishing in the creek at the bottom of the garden, and one Saturday in late September, the Madam took her on an outing to the zoo. On another weekend the Master and Madam took her rowing on Zoo Lake, in one of the brightly colored boats I’d seen bobbing on the water’s edge.

  At first I was happy that my child had something to do other than follow me around on my mundane chores, but after a while, panic started to build inside me. Where would this end? Would Miriam grow up expecting a life that could never be hers? Would the police send me back to my homeland for ignoring the law?

  But most of my misgivings would evaporate as soon as she rushed into my room panting like a puppy, her cheeks sticky with juice, her round eyes dancing. Then she would become the eager storyteller and I, her attentive audience.

  This particular evening, however, the Steiners’ request troubled me. Had something gone missing? Had a plate been chipped or a vase broken? Somehow I knew it would be more than this.

  I was tired. My eyes were burning and my limbs ached. The long day and my monthly bleed had sucked the energy out of me. I dried the cutlery and set the breakfast table, then swallowed my dinner in the dim light of my room. The cornmeal porridge was stiff and the gravy cold, but I was too distracted to warm it.

  My quarters came off the back of the house, my room opening onto a concrete yard and sagging washing line. Off to the right, down a steep flight of stairs, was the outside toilet I shared with Solomon, the gardener, and any other black, colored, or Indian tradesman who might visit.

  My room was small and fitted little more than my bed, which balanced on four empty paraffin cans to keep Miriam and me safe from the tokoloshe—that mischievous evil spirit. Under the bed was stashed whatever I couldn’t fit into the old wardrobe pushed hard up against the back wall.

  The stale air of close living had dulled the white walls, leaving them sallow and grubby looking, even after I’d scrubbed them down.

  Beside the door, on top of an empty tomato crate, was my Primus stove. When not in use, I covered it with a bright yellow tea towel the Madam had tossed out because of a rip in the hem. I had to be careful about taking things from the rubbish—once the Madam accused me of stealing a scarf she’d forgotten she had thrown out.

  Across one wall of my room, hidden by a permanently drawn frill of faded orange curtain, ran a long narrow window—the slit of an eye looking over a shaded courtyard where the Steiners ate their lunch most weekends. The Madam had planted a vigorous bougainvillea creeper to block my window from view, and, successful in this task, it prevented all but the faintest thread of light from reaching my room. A thick woody vine had even nudged its way inside, preventing me from shutting my window completely. In winter the gap ushered in an icy draft, and in summer served as a highway for a steady stream of insects.

  I put a chattering Miriam to bed, then made my way back to the house, hovering outside the lounge until the Madam called to me.

  “Come. Come in, Celia. Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the couch.

  Confused by this new familiarity, I balanced on the edge of the seat. It felt wrong to be sitting in the lounge I cleaned and dusted every day. Only once before, when the Steiners had been away on holiday, had I dared eat at their long dining room table—madam of their home for one day.

  Master Michael stood behind his wife, his eyes avoiding me.

  “The Master and I have been doing a lot of thinking lately,” the Madam began. She spoke in a slow, deliberate voice, as if it was important for me to understand every word. “This country has a lot of problems, no?”

  I nodded.

  “Too many problems,” she continued, sucking on one of her teeth. “It isn’t a safe place for us anymore.”

  I waited for what was to follow, the Madam’s words stirring up the thick layer of dread that lined the bottom of my days.

  “The Master and I have decided we cannot stay here. We are moving to England at the end of the year.”

  My head started to spin, the security of the last nine years draining like water through a colander. I would need to find a new job. How would I send money to my mother? My children. Where would I live? Would I have to travel from the townships? When could—

  “Celia.”

  I heard my name from beyond the chaos of my thoughts.

  “Celia?”

  Rita and Michael Steiner were staring at me.

  “We would like to take Miriam with us,” said the Master softly.

  My mind landed back in the room with a thud.

  “Celia, Master Steiner and I want to adopt Miriam.”

  The Madam’s words drove through me like an assegai.

  “She is a lovely child and very bright. Wasted, really,” she said, shaking her head. “We’ll be able to give her a good life in England, far better than she could ever hope to have here. She’ll get to go to a good school, have whatever she needs, and, most importantly, be away from the difficulties of this cursed country.”

  I tried to speak, but my tongue felt fat and slow in my mouth, like a sun-drunk lizard.

  The Madam went on, leaving me behind as I tried to grab hold of the words she was tossing into the room. “You have three other children, no?”

  I opened my mouth.

  “And what help is that husband of yours . . . Patrick, isn’t it? How often does he send you money from the mines?”

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was as dry as kindling.

  “Too busy spending it on his girlfriends and Kaffir beer, hey.”

  Her words stung—the pain of confidences betrayed.

  “Meanwhile, you are left to feed and clothe them. It can’t be easy, I—”

  Michael Steiner put a hand on his wife’s arm, and when he spoke his voice was quiet and tender. For a moment it felt as if we were alone in the room, just the Master and me.

  “Celia, your daughter is very precious to us. We will do everything we can, with your blessing of course, to give her a happy childhood and a good life.”

  Your daughter, your daughter, your daughter. The words were sucked into the whirlpool of my mind.

  The Madam sat down beside me. “Of course we’ll leave you some money to tide you over until you find another job. In fact, I know someone who might be looking for a char from January.”

  She turned to the Master. “The greengrocers. Their char’s pregnant again.”

  I slumped back into the couch.

  “I know it’s a lot to think about,” Rita Steiner said, motioning to me to stand. “But try to make up your mind as quickly as you can. There will be much to arrange.”

  I heaved myself up.

  Master Michael moved toward me and rested a hand on my elbow, his white fingers cool against my hot black skin.

  I cannot remember leaving the room, nor passing through the kitchen and out into the still night. I only became aware of my surroundings with the screech of the neighbor’s cat as it darted in front of me. I stumbled, going down heavily onto the slate paving and splitting open my knee on the jagged footpath. Dazed, I lay there, sprawled across the pavers, until my limbs grew cold and stiff.

  By the time I picked myself up, the thick trail of blood tracking onto the paving was dry. Climbing the three concrete stairs to my room, I stepped into the darkness and, without undressing, sank onto the mattress beside my Miriam. She didn’t stir.

&n
bsp; When sleep finally came, it was troubled and fitful, and when I awoke, my pillow was wet with tears. But unlike waking from a nightmare to the warm relief of reality, the events of the previous evening were lying in wait to suffocate my day.

  I turned to face the child asleep beside me—her small chest rising and falling with each whispered breath. With my forefinger, I traced the slope of her eyelids and caressed her long black lashes as they curled away from carefree dreams. I cupped her tiny ears in my hands, stroked her untroubled brow, and kissed each of her little fingers. It was as if she were a newborn again and I was seeing her for the very first time.

  Then she was awake—my cheeky jewel glistening in the morning sunshine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  November 1960

  Miriam

  The doors could not be closed properly, the church hall was so packed with people; I thought it would burst. Brown bodies were tossed in a salad of bright clothes and river-blue robes, faces glistened with sweat, and mouths were opened wide in song. I could see right to the back of one old makhulu’s mouth, to the two bits of pink skin dangling there. The granny was singing for all she was worth.

  I was standing on a wonky chair, wedged between Mme and a wrinkly man who smelled of beer and beef bones. From my position I could see right over the bobbing heads and staffs swaying in unison, to the pastor conducting the choir. I loved singing in church, because my voice joined with all the other voices to make one loud voice that felt all mine.

  Soon the service was over and we were tumbling out into the golden afternoon to trestle tables laden with mielie pap, cream biscuits, and tins of sweet tea.

  Church Sundays were my best. There were other children to play with, new hiding places to explore and trees to climb. And there was always lots to eat.

  Mme was mostly happy too—talking and laughing and swinging her big bottom in time to the music. I liked Mme best on Sundays. When she untied her apron and removed the doek from her head, she shed her serious don’t-touch, put-that-down, don’t-talk-too-loud, maybe-later skin, like a molting snake.

  My favorite church friend was Sipho. He lived in Orlando township and saw his mother only on Sundays. He was also six years old, but much cleverer than me. He could hop on one foot for an entire race without overbalancing and fold his tongue into a proper tunnel. My tongue just went out—never up and round like his.

  After we’d drunk our tea and filled our pockets with biscuits, we ran off to play.

  Sipho had made a car from bits of wire and scraps of wood. It had bottle-top wheels and a long, stiff handle, which meant he could steer it without having to bend down. It was a proper sports model—nothing like the old jalopies I sometimes made. We took turns driving it up and down the dirt track behind the hall, until one of the wheels came off. Then we had to look for a replacement. I searched everywhere for a suitable bottle top, but Sipho was very disparaging about the ones I found. He said there were much better ones to choose from in the township. I wished I lived there. It sounded like so much fun.

  “Miriam.” Mme was calling.

  “Just a bit longer, pleeease.”

  “It’s late, Mbila. After the bus, we still have a long walk home. I want to get back before dark.”

  I loved it when she called me Mbila. It meant “hand piano” in Tshivenda. Mme said I reminded her of the cheerful sound it made.

  By the time we got off the bus the light was fading and Mme walked quickly. I had to run and hop every few steps just to keep up with her. After a while, though, she forgot about the time and slowed to her usual giraffe-ambling pace, stopping every now and then to chat with a passerby. Then I would skip on ahead, leading most of the way, except for when I’d run back to show her some prize I’d found. My best find was a rusty padlock with the key still in the lock. I also found a whole snail shell. I decided to keep both for a trade with Sipho, just in case he brought some of those special township bottle tops next time.

  When I was really far ahead, I flung myself down on the spongy grass sidewalk and gazed up at the sky dotted with toothpaste-white clouds. I could make out several shapes—a rooster, a tortoise, and a man with three heads. As I was lying there, waiting for Mme to catch up, a dog began to bark from behind a very low fence. I shot back to Mme’s warm, solid legs and stayed by her side for the rest of the journey.

  She’d decided to take the route past the old apricot tree on Griswold Road. The detour added a few extra blocks onto our trip, but this being the beginning of summer, we were sure to be rewarded with good pickings. Already from the top of the avenue I could make out some of the sweet orange treasure scattered across the pavement.

  The tree was alive with wasps and we had to be careful not to get stung as we stuffed our pockets. Mme even picked a few unspoiled apricots from an overhanging branch, while I kept lookout.

  With our pockets bulging and the sun slipping behind us in the sky, we set off again for Saxonwold, Mme promising to make stewed apricots and custard for pudding.

  I had just jammed a whole fruit into my mouth when I heard footsteps coming from around the corner; someone was running. Then a dog began to bark. After this came the screeching of a car.

  We stopped, then Mme yanked me back into a bed of dark green ivy just as a boy came tearing around the corner.

  He was as tall as a man, but I could see from his eyes he was still a boy; they were stretched wide—dark brown disks sucking up all the white. His shirt was stuck to his skinny black body in round wet patches and his trousers looked too big for him. He’d looped a piece of string through the belt holds to keep them up. On one of his feet flopped a frayed tackie, without laces. His other foot was bare.

  As he sprinted past, my Sunday happiness disappeared into his hungry brown eyes.

  Then came the skidding of wheels. Mme and I pressed ourselves up against the wall as a police van hurtled around the corner. Police vans all looked the same—cream-colored cab in front, cage on the back, green canvas curtains on either side. If the curtains were down, you couldn’t see inside. These ones weren’t. They were rolled up like the curlers the Madam sometimes wore in her hair, and we could see inside. Packed into the darkness were the whites of many more eyes.

  The running boy stopped for a moment—you could hear air whistling in and out of his mouth—then he was scrambling over the wall we were standing against. The ivy stole his only shoe. I reached out and freed it from the dark leaves, but Mme jerked me back, and I dropped it. I put my hand to my nose and breathed in the sour smell of the running boy.

  We heard him drop to the other side. Then someone screamed. It was a white-madam scream—high and sharp like broken glass. More dogs started barking. The boy was now clambering back over the gate, the silver spears on top poking big red holes in his hands.

  I squeezed Mme’s fingers. She was so still standing there beside me in the dark green ivy—I wished she would say something.

  The van stopped in front of us and out jumped a policeman and his dog.

  Mme put a finger to her lips.

  “Vang hom! Catch him! Catch the blerrie Kaffir!” yelled another policeman from behind the wheel. He sped off, the door flying further open before slamming shut with the speed of the van. The dog was let off its leash and began gaining on the boy.

  All of a sudden the string around the boy’s pants snapped and his trousers started to slide down over his bottom. He wasn’t wearing underpants. He was naked underneath.

  I didn’t laugh.

  He kept on running, all the while trying to pull his trousers back up, but when he turned to look over his shoulder, they fell down around his ankles and he tripped.

  Then the dog was on top of him.

  Mme put her hand over my eyes. I tried to pull it away, but she held firm, so I only got to look through the thin gaps between her fingers.

  “Asseblief, baas! Please, boss!” the boy begged.
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  Mme didn’t have enough hands to cover my ears.

  I started to hum one of the songs we’d sung in church that morning as the policeman’s brown boot moved back and forward, thumping into the boy’s bendy body. After a bit, the thumping changed to whistle . . . thwack, whistle . . . thwack. I opened my eyes for a quick look. It was the sound of a sjambok—the policeman’s rhino-hide whip.

  The policeman’s face was like the side of a split watermelon—red and wet—and the boy’s one-eyed snake was red too.

  Tears spilled out of my eyes, but I held on to my voice so it couldn’t escape.

  After a while the street was quiet, except for the sound of a panting dog and a panting policeman.

  The driver got out of the van and marched over to where the race had ended. He flipped the boy over, hiding his dust-dull face from the street’s curious eyes. The other policeman put thick silver bracelets onto the boy’s crooked wrists and both men dragged him along the road, his head bumping up and down on the gravel.

  “Een, twee, drie,” they counted, before swinging him into the back of the van.

  I knew what een, twee, drie meant because Mme had been teaching me to count in Afrikaans. She said I’d have to speak Afrikaans at school.

  The commotion had drawn quite a crowd, but Mme’s and mine were the only black faces on the street. There were some shivering children—their bathing costumes still dripping—staring through the bars of a gate until a white madam hurried them inside. There was also a group of men dressed in white, leaning on their tennis rackets.

  Luckily the day was already yawning and the sun so low that long afternoon shadows helped hide us in the ivy.

  I looked at the boy’s tackie poking out of the leaves. I was sure he’d want it, especially since he’d only had one to start with. But as I tried to reach for it, Mme yanked me back hard, hurting my arm. Suddenly I felt scared.

  I was about to start crying again, when a master from the ivy-walled home walked out to speak with the policemen. “No, nobody harmed. Just saw this black leap over the wall and of course my wife got a terrible fright. I think her screams scared him off,” he said with a chuckle.